Bittersweet River

Beckett and Macye Maher Fishing on the Big Horn River.

The irony in fly fishing is that there’s irony-I thought it would be a sport so inspired it’s immune to irony. The April day on the Big Horn River falls beautifully into place. This river in Wyoming is a place where I have had great success landing large rainbow trout. So far today, the best trout is a silver torpedo with a foreground of vibrant color splashes and looks artsy. Alex, who is usually with me fishing, says they are brighter than usual because they have spawning colors. Beckett, the younger fellow and our son, also usually with me, comes toward me. I am in the front; he netted the fish from the stern, and we meet in the middle for the photo. Alex takes the picture.

          During the next hour I get caught up in the daydream thinking “Wow, this is the perfect float.” As Beckett starts to get serious about fishing, I cheer him on. Getting our teenager to put away his phone on a river where there’s cell service is a big feat. When Beckett hooks up to a big one, the line arcs like a rainbow after a storm. He clenches his face, relaxes into a smile, clenches again while he fights and pulls in line. He struggles to manage it. I’m excited and think we are ready for the net. I grab the wooden handle and yank it from the hull of the boat. I can tell the fish is not worn out because the rod bends dangerously, bends passed the normal arc of a big fish. One look at Beckett and he looks like a tormented hornet. Something’s wrong. 

         “Think it’s foul-hooked,” he says through his frustration.

These are harder to land, if at all.

The trout runs through the clear water, passes me and the bow, and it’s headed down river. Beckett’s reel seat screams as the line tears away, and I lean over the bow to look for the trout. I don’t see it, however I lean out with the net in case the trout turns back. Anticipation is a beautiful thing. I actually see the rainbow colors dazzling and notice the fish is beyond the fish that I caught, it’s larger.

I rarely have a moment so nightmarish and one that is painted in rainbow-silver that makes me immediately sick to my stomach. The trout grazes the side of the boat. It’s like a shark moment, my adrenaline races, but this fish I desperately want to help land.

I sweep the net in the wrong direction. Then, I panic. With my free hand I lift the line to the rod. I dare to lift the line and the fish into the net.

It’s too hefty. A smaller fish might have shimmied over the wooden rim of the net and fallen lazily inside.

I realize my faults too late.

It is over. Into the dark, the fish disappears. Into the bittersweet river, goes my fulfillment.

I realize my body is tailored towards the downriver side. The guys cannot see the net is empty. But I release a breath and say, “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s gone?” Beckett questions.

I collapse onto the seat. I hug the net.

“Yes.”

I can hardly face my son. This is a boy who secures his first job one month after turning fourteen. A boy who helps a neighbor he’s just met build a berm for a mountain biking course, and this is a boy who donates his frozen game meat to the Hole Food Rescue during the Covid-scare. And how can I not be in awe of his ability to net my fish expertly? It’s no wonder he’s burning up about losing the fish so close to the boat. It is a large fish, picture-worthy for any skilled angler.

Alex starts to row again.

The silence is an anchor.

My shoulders hurt to lift. 

Our boat moves down the river. We get to the boat launch having caught up with the others. I’m even more deflated that he is staying clear of me. Minutes tick by slowly.

I go through the motions of the drift boat take-out. I play with my daughters and we talk about their fishing day and I see the brightly colored bracelets they made too. 

It’s been over an hour. Finally we talk.

Beckett looks me in the eyes.

“Remember when you hooked a really big one on the South Fork, and I grabbed the line like you did and snapped the fish off and you were so mad?”

That could be the end of the story. It could be that the nightmare never rectifies.

Yet, later Beckett comes to me. He hugs me and won’t let go. We console each other over how ironic it is: the fishing and catching are brilliant moments. The netting is not, it can be bittersweet. And we laugh at how it happened to both of us.